


Burish And Sharpie Make A Porno

by antumbral



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 2008 roster, BHTV, Chicago Blackhawks, Crack, Light-Hearted, M/M, Porn, Pranks, Video Cameras, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As road roommates and partners in crime, Burish and Sharpie consider it their god-given responsibility to torment the young stars on their team. One night, they get more then they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burish And Sharpie Make A Porno

**Author's Note:**

> This was written during the 08-09 season, when Burish and Sharpie really were roommates and were the worst pranksters a team could ever hope to have. Toews and Kane were also roommates, and were frighteningly codependent. The title of this fic comes from the brilliant [backcheck](http://backcheck.livejournal.com), who tagged her posts of Blackhawk TV's first season with 'burish and sharpie make a porno', and whose now-defunct journal was a source of joy and wonder back when the Hawks were still fumbling and flailing their way into the public consciousness.

It wasn’t hard to hide the camera in the kids’ room: a few strategic smiles to the hotel concierge to get the key; a suggestion to Soupy that Italian might be good to eat, so Soupy would get the kids out of the room; a ten-minute wait that seemed interminably long to make sure neither of them would decide to come back and fetch something. After that, it was just a matter of slipping in and planting the pen-cam above the mirror, in a hidden spot. Adam Burish waved to the tiny glass eye and Sharpie called his cell phone.

“Yeah, you’re good,” Sharpie said. “I can see the whole room from here, and the bathroom door. Unless they decide to hang out in the corner by the window, we got it.”

“Cool. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Adam snapped his cell closed and nodded to the camera, knowing that Sharpie would see him from the laptop hooked up to receive the camera’s visual feed. One more minute to make sure he hadn’t moved anything else in the room to arouse suspicion, and he was home free. 

“This is either gonna be great or really fuckin’ boring, man,” Sharpie greeted him as he stepped back into the room, mouth full of pizza. When Sharpie talked with his mouth full, it looked kind of like his teeth were bloody from the tomato sauce. They’d ordered in so they’d have more time to watch the camera once the kids got back.

“Aw, it’ll be great. Besides, Kempenaar said even if it sucked he’d edit it and release it on the website, just to embarrass Tazer.”

“Yeah whate --. Hey look, Avery’s on Sports Center.” Sharpie nodded toward the TV, and fumbled for the remote to unmute it.

“Scoot over, I wanna watch. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack and keel over on national TV.”

“We should be so lucky.” Sharpie moved the pizza box, though, and they settled on opposite sides of the bed to watch. Sharpie stretched out and leaned back against the headboard, and Burish sat up with his legs crossed and hoarded the pizza for himself. The laptop got shoved to the nightstand beside the bed.

“—in no way meant to hit on Perez Hilton,” Avery was saying on the tube.

“Eh, shut up assnozzle,” Sharpie told the TV. He picked a pepperoni off his pizza slice and hurled it at the picture. “Nobody wants to hear you whine.”

“I kinda want to hear him whine.” Burish nibbled delicately at his own pizza slice, and smacked Sharpie’s hand away when he reached for another. “No. Mine. You know, if Bettman banishes him it’ll mean Phaneuf’s dick has the power of, like, life and death over NHL careers.”

Sharpie gave him a withering look. “Phaneuf’s dick has no power over my career.”

“You never know, man. Maybe we’re all secretly under the power of Phaneuf’s giant –“

“La la la,” said Sharpie loudly. “Blah blah blah la la.” Burish threw a pepperoni at him.

“Fucker.”

“Asshole.” They grinned at each other.

On Sports Center, Avery continued to make protesting noises about how straight he was. The host nodded seriously whenever Avery was looking at him, and rolled his eyes whenever he looked away. Sharpie wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “How long do you think it’ll take the kids to get back?”

“I dunno.” Burish shrugged. “Hey look, Romo got some sort of disease from that Simpson chick.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah.”

*

In fact, Burish was in the shower when the kids got back. Sharpie waved a hand at him as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom, making shushing noises. He was bent over the laptop, studying it intently.

“What, are they back yet?”

“Yeah, they got in like twenty minutes ago.”

Burish rubbed his towel over his hair and wandered over to have a look. Sharpie turned the laptop so he could see better, and Burish cocked his head to one side. 

“You know, we always joked about it, but I never really thought we were right,” Sharpie said thoughtfully.

The computer screen showed a room much like their own, with two beds and a nightstand between them. On one of the beds, Patrick Kane was bouncing absently up and down while digging through his bag. 

“Tazer? Ta- _zer_!” he shouted over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. Burish supposed Toews was behind the open bathroom door, a suspicion confirmed when the bathroom emitted an indistinct grunting in response to Kaner’s calls. 

“These are not. Good. Beds.” Kaner called, bouncing emphatically on the mattress with each word, the bag temporarily abandoned in favor of critiquing the hotel furniture. “In fact these are bad beds. They do not bounce.” 

“You’ll get over it, I’m sure.” Jonny emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung around his waist and his upper torso dripping wet. His hair was all pushed over to one side of his head. It looked a little like what might happen if the Fonz mated with Shatner-era Kirk.

“He looks a little like Shatner-era Kirk,” said Burish, and Sharpie turned an incredulous look over his shoulder. “What? He does.”

“You are so gay.” Sharpie seemed serious. Burish sniffed. 

“He does.”

“Bad. Beds. Bad. Beds.” Kaner was practically jumping on the bed now, chanting along as he bounced. Tazer sighed, and dropped both hands on Kaner’s shoulders, making him be still. 

“Dude. It’s okay, we’re only here for one night.”

Pat stilled and looked up, staring Tazer dead in the face, all huge eyes and curls. He blinked twice. “Yeah,” he said at last, and Tazer nodded wearily. 

“Go take a shower. And here, hang this up when you go.” He tossed the towel around his waist at Kaner, who caught it dead in the face. 

“Oh my god,” said Sharpie, and pushed the laptop away like it had bitten him. “I did not need to see that. I think I’m scarred for life.”

Burish retrieved the computer and straightened out the screen again. Tazer was bending over his bag, locating shorts, and Kaner had wandered off in the direction of the bathroom. 

“It’s okay,” he said when Tazer was at least a little clothed again. “You can look now.”

“Don’t wanna look,” Sharpie muttered, his face buried in a pillow. “Scarred for life. All your fault.”

“Pussy.” It worked because it always worked, and Sharpie sat up again. 

“Am not.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dude.” They looked back down at the screen. Tazer had settled into bed with his blackberry, and the shower was emitting running water noises from within the bathroom. Burish noticed Pat still hadn’t bothered to shut the door. It was a little disturbing, if he thought too deeply about the fact the kids seemed not to care if the other one was naked, so he tried not to think about it.

They watched for a while longer, Burish leaning over Sharpie’s shoulder, as Tazer sent text messages and occasionally wiggled his toes. 

“Ow, motherfucker,” said the shower.

Tazer looked up. “What?”

“I got conditioner on my stitches. Stings like a bitch.” Burish could sympathize. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be such a princess about your hair,” Tazer shouted at the shower, rolling onto his stomach and scratching idly at his upper thigh. “Then you wouldn’t get stuff on your stitches.”

“Not a princess,” said the shower, and Burish didn’t need to see Jonny’s face to know he was rolling his eyes. Tazer rolled back onto his back and tapped at his phone’s screen.

“You realize we’re spending our night watching Jonny talk on the phone,” said Sharpie at last.

“Yeah, okay,” said Burish. “I’ll find a movie or something.”

Die Hard 4 was on, and Bruce Willis was far more entertaining than Kane or Toews, so the laptop was banished to the other side of the bed in favor of relaxing and mocking the explosions.

*

Truth be told, Burish forgot about the kids until he was about to go to sleep. Or maybe his psyche wiped all memories of Jonny throwing that towel at Kaner off his brain as a safety mechanism. At any rate, he only remembered the camera when he had to move the laptop to turn down the sheets.

“Hey that’s… huh.” Burish pulled the laptop onto his legs for more comfortable viewing.

Kaner was sitting on his bed with a cigarette in his fingers. Or rather, it looked like a cigarette. Burish would have bet Fort Knox that it wasn’t tobacco.

That wasn’t unusual, though. The whole team knew about Kaner and pot, it wasn't like he tried hard to keep it a secret. No, the surprising thing was that he was sitting on one side of the bed and Tazer was on the other, stealing the cigarette, or rather, the joint from Kaner’s hand to puff thoughtfully then return it to Pat. 

“Is that Toews doing pot?” Sharpie asked, peering over his shoulder.

“I think so. That bastard, never woulda put it past him.”

“You realize what happens if we give this to Kempenaar.”

“Heh heh. I don’t think he’d actually post it.” Burish shifted over in bed, and Sharpie plopped down beside him and tugged the computer over to share the screen more equitably.

“He might. He didn’t think twice about putting that thing with you and Seabs up there, even though the hotel probably wanted you shot for it.” Sharpie grinned at the memory.

“True.” 

“This means we get blackmail material on Tazer for the rest of his life, though.” 

Burish nodded and turned up the audio on the computer. The sound on the camera wasn’t that good, since its microphone was necessarily tiny. Toews clearly said something to Kane, but it was too low for the camera to pick up. “Nope,” Pat said back, slow and drawling. “Nuh uh.” He shook his head from side to side, and his hair kind of bounced around with the motion. 

Like Shirley Temple, Burish thought. Oh, that was a good one; it hit the hair and the fact that Kaner was about as tall as an ant’s arthritic grandma. He’d have to remember to call Kaner that during practice sometime.

On screen, Tazer tried the frowning face on Pat for a moment, but Pat was obviously immune, puffing calmly at the joint and ignoring him. Then Tazer reached over and grabbed at the joint again, but Pat held it out to the side and above his head.

“You’re a prick,” Toews said irritably. 

“ _Someone_ is not very mellow,” Kaner returned, and Sharpie cracked up at Burish’s side. The kids were commencing a wrestling match to see who could come up with the joint. Toews had a size and weight advantage, but apparently Kaner had no compunctions about using his sharp little elbows.

“Not very mellow,” snickered Sharpie. “It makes so much sense.”

It kind of did. If there was anyone who would turn out to be immune to the effect of pot, it was Mr. Serious himself. The wrestling match resolved itself when Toews planted his knees on Kaner’s chest and waited until Pat couldn’t breathe.

Kaner whacked him across the face with one forearm, but when that didn’t work, he gave up the joint. Tazer shifted his knees to either side of Pat’s chest, and settled comfortably to sit on top of him, puffing calmly for a few seconds while Kaner struggled to regain his breath.

When Kaner had regained enough equilibrium to talk again, he mumbled a string of curses out at Toews, who ignored him. The camera wasn’t so great about picking up the quieter sounds, but Burish was pretty sure he caught “monkey-fucking” and “bitch-ass punk” before Tazer calmly shoved his whole hand over Pat’s face to shut him up.

“Ow, _ow, OW,_ ” Pat’s sudden squeaks were much louder. Tazer jerked his hand away.

“What?”

“My nose, idiot. Fuck, I’ve already got goddamn stitches, then you go and shove your paw up my nose. Here, move.” Kaner wiggled a hand out from under Jonny, and fingered gingerly between his eyes. “If I can’t play because I can’t breathe tomorrow, I gonna blame everything on my fucking team captain.”

“How bad is it?” Jonny leaned over and snuffed the last little bits of the joint out in the ashtray on the nightstand, then bent down to peer closely at Pat’s face. He was still seated on Kaner’s chest, hunched over and running the tip of his middle finger over the line of stitches on Kaner’s nose.

“I dunno.” Their conversation got a lot quieter since their faces were close, and Burish reached down to turn the volume way up on the laptop. Sharpie elbowed him abruptly.

“Ow, what was that for?”

“Can you believe these two?” Sharpie leaned over and tilted his head to be closer to the camera feed. “God, Kempenaar’s gonna like, come in his pants or something when we give him this film. My sister’s gonna eat this up. She already thinks the kids are cute.”

Burish nodded. 

The camera showed Jonny leaning back a little more to sit up, still touching Kaner’s nose. This time he was rubbing his thumb along the stitches, with the rest of his hand spanned over Kaner’s cheek. It was a weird gesture. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Tazer said, low enough the camera barely picked it up. 

For a minute Kaner just lay back and looked at him. Burish and Sharpie did too. Then Kaner nodded, his eyes half open at best. “You really are a bastard, you know?” he said, quiet enough that Burish wouldn’t have heard it without the volume so far up. 

“Yeah, well, you’re a fuckhead.” Jonny said, serious, then ruffled his hair affectionately. Kaner smiled. Jonny shifted backwards a little and stretched out on top of Pat, comfortable. Kaner kissed him.

“Oh my _God_ ,” said Sharpie, and jumped backwards so fast he slammed his elbow into the headboard behind them. “Fuck fuck fuck shit funny bones are not funny.”

Burish was torn between horror at the laptop on his legs and laughing his head off at Sharpie. He glanced back down at the screen, and his brain took a second to process the image. Kaner had his hands on Toews’s ass.

“Nerguhk,” Burish said, and pushed the laptop off onto the bed like it was a bomb that might self-destruct at any second. “Oh my _God_.”

Sharpie stared at him, wild-eyed, and Burish stared back. He didn’t quite know how to react; his previous experience had never prepared him for this situation. After a few fraught seconds, Sharpie started to laugh, slow at first then harder and closer to hysteria. Burish thought that might be an appropriate response and joined in.

“They! They--,” Sharpie chortled. 

“Imagine Kempenaar’s _face_ ,” said Burish, and that set off a fresh round of laughter. 

“Holy crap, this is priceless,” said Sharpie, snorting a little with continued giggles. “We have, like, the holy grail of footage here. We can have anything we want! There is _no end_ to the amazing things this tape could bring us.”

“Do we keep watching?” Burish wondered. “Because I don’t want to see that.”

“Is it worse now?” Sharpie asked. “No, you look, you’re the one who placed the camera and all.”

“Not me, I don’t want to –,” but the laptop’s sound made the argument moot. 

“I think you owe me,” said the laptop in Kaner’s voice, about an octave below his usual tone. The pot-drawl was still there, but it sounded like Pat had dragged his vocal cords down a mile stretch of gravel road or something. Burish shut up abruptly, and Sharpie met his eyes, wide and terrified to hear what might come next. There was no way in the world that Kane should ever sound like that, and even less of a way that Burish should _know_ that Kane could sound like that.

“Think so, huh?” Tazer’s voice had sunk to match, and might have been inaudible except that both Burish and Sharpie were frozen with horror, so it was the only sound in the room. “Yeah, okay.” Then, even lower, “Okay. Stay still. Just let me do the work this time.” A pause, then, “Princess. Hey, ow, you know you might be smarter than to do that when someone’s got his head this close to your – ow, you fucker.”

“Argch,” Sharpie said, high and strangled and Burish knew exactly how he felt. The laptop emitted sounds of a brief struggle, rustling fabric, and Burish’s mother had always told him a vivid imagination was a good thing, but she was _wrong wrong wrong_. He drew he knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Sharpie was doing the same thing. They stared at the laptop together, horrified into immobility.

“Stay.” It was Toews’s voice, the command voice that he sometimes used across the ice when someone needed to do something _right then_ , and Christ, Burish was never going to be able to cleanse his brain after this. He was going to collapse into a little ball of dread the next time Toews shouted at him in practice, he could see it now. The laptop was emitting wet rhythmic sounds, soft and terribly inevitable, then a drawn-out deep moan that the camera’s microphone captured with absolute clarity.

“No!” squeaked Sharpie and pounced on the laptop, shoving it closed with a snap. They looked at each other again, and for about three solid minutes the room was quiet. Thankfully, the laptop was quiet too.

Burish blinked. “There’s a liquor store down the block,” he said finally. “I saw it when we were looking for the hotel.”

“If--,” Sharpie said, but the noise came out high-pitched and startled. He cleared his throat and tried again. “If we start drinking _right now_ , maybe we can forget the whole night. It’ll be worth the hangover tomorrow. But we need to do it _soon_.”

“Yeah,” said Burish. “Yeah, okay. Booze now. We have a plan.”

As they left the hotel, Burish paused by the kids’ door. He couldn’t explain why, maybe he just liked pain. A growling, desperate noise was audible even through the door. 

Sharpie met his eyes, then knocked. The noise ceased abruptly. Sharpie grinned at him, wide and manic, then knocked again. Burish could hear a muffled “ _Fuck_ ” from inside.

Sharpie jerked his head and they set off for the stairs at a run. When they got to the bottom, panting, Sharpie grabbed his shoulder. “We don’t talk about this again,” he said. “Not a word. We forget it all.”

Burish nodded in complete agreement. “Let’s go pick up Jack and Jose. I need to bleach my brain.”

“Never again.” Sharpie was whispering to himself, and didn’t really stop until he had a bottle of tequila in one hand and a bottle of cheap vodka in the other. They started back to the hotel with their memory erasure supplies in hand. 

“Hey, you know what?” Burish knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist. “We should invite Tazer. For drinks.”

Sharpie stared at him. He had one piece of hair sticking off to the side, and quite a bit falling down in his eyes. It made him look like a mad scientist, Burish thought. They walked on towards the hotel, Burish pondering whether Jonny would also like to cleanse his brain, and Sharpie watching him like he might turn into a danger to the public at any second. 

They were in the elevator when Burish began to laugh, and Sharpie reached out gently to him, supporting his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll start forgetting soon. Just hang in a little while longer.”

“No, no,” Burish said, still chuckling. “Picture Kempenaar’s face when we give him back the camera.” Sharpie blinked, then started to snicker too. “Maybe we can still pull a prank,” Burish said. “I think the kids got the best of us this time, but maybe we can still pull a prank.”

“He will be _traumatized_ ,” said Sharpie gleefully. “It will be _great_.”

“Maybe we can get some good out of this yet.”

“This is a _good_ plan,” agreed Sharpie. 

*

Blackhawk fans everywhere wondered why the website suddenly stopped featuring video of Adam Burish and leading scorer Patrick Sharp. At first it was called a coincidence, but as the radio silence drew on, fans began to speculate that one of the two had angered the webmaster.

The only exception to this strange blackout for the rest of the season came in the form of a clip reel, showing all of Sharp and Burish’s injuries or embarrassing falls. The first few seconds of the soon-infamous “Brutality Reel” were set to Marvin Gaye’s _Let’s Get It On_ , a bizarre choice considering that they showed Patrick Sharp taking a puck to the face in slo-mo. The rest of the video was set to Metallica’s _For Whom the Bell Tolls_. Kempenaar never explained.

*


End file.
